


as long as the stars are above you

by Resamille



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Everyone is a God, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Gods, Grief/Mourning, Iwaizumi Hajime is dead, M/M, Magic, Married Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Memories as currency, Memory Magic, Minor Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Moving On, Past Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Pining, Pining Kuroo Tetsurou, Stealing memories, and i'm very sorry about it, i guess?, iwa you do NOT deserve my bullshit, like aggressive pining, making deals with gods in alleyways is maybe not the best idea, some weird lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22690501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resamille/pseuds/Resamille
Summary: The gods in this city rule in the shadows. They make deals in the dark spaces of the world, trading memories for power. When Oikawa asks Kuroo to take away his memories of Iwaizumi, Kuroo doesn't hesitate because, despite everything, he's still in love.Iwaizumi dies. Oikawa doesn't remember. Kuroo remembers too much.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 14
Kudos: 104





	as long as the stars are above you

**Author's Note:**

> this fic simultaneously saved me and tried to kill me. i had one hell of a writer's block last fall and was struggling immensely to sit down and make the words _go_ despite how desperately i wanted to write. i had so many wips i tried to work on and i would manage maybe a sentence before i scrapped it and gave up. starting this fic broke me out of one of my worst slumps, honestly, so i committed to finishing it but i legitimately have no idea what this is anymore lmao.
> 
> i wanted to write a story about falling in love, and how just because you've loved and lost doesn't mean that it's over, and that having loved and lost and loving again doesn't necessarily negate your first love, and all that silly shenanigans. then a bit about how if you live long enough you've probably had at least one fling or two with all your fellow semi-immortal friends. also not once do i explain how iwaizumi dies. oops.
> 
> so i'm sorry iwaizumi but apparently oikawa angst is what breaks my writer's block.
> 
> title from how long will i love you by ellie goulding.
> 
> haven't proofread any of this shit whatsoever so haha fuckin NICE.

A treacherous thing lurks in the darkness: it's a poison and an assassin and the dark heat of desire and the smell of decay, all at once. A cesspool, a recipe, a man. He walks between buildings, trailing fingertips across dirty brick, ghosting whispers into strangers' ears, and few but the shadows know him for what he really is.

There are old gods, born from the dust of the void, emerged from greed, from lust, from despair. Some have passed on and become that which is of stars and of children's nightmares. Others still haunt these streets, the industrial cityscape from which they spawned.

Kuroo Tetsurou is one such creature, drawn to the darkness, chained by uncharacteristic sentimentality, ever-wandering. He stalks the nights of his city. He chases the dangers. He walks the thin line between wanting to leave it all behind; to end it all; to be something other than what he is; and the curse of power; the curse of ambition; the curse of the fear of being alone, forever.

So he stays, and he walks a different path each night, but all roads lead to the same door.

“Kuro,” murmurs a voice on the wind.

Kuroo stops walking. Kenma rarely accompanies him on his excursion, but he can occasionally be persuaded. Kuroo did not attempt to persuade him, this time.

Kenma tugs at Kuroo's sleeve, and Kuroo doesn't look down at him. Instead, he watches a man turn into the entrance of the alley ahead of them.

“Do you need something, Kenma?” Kuroo asks.

“There was a letter. For you.” Kenma stares up at him, unblinking. In his hand, he clutches an unopened letter.

“Hey, kids,” calls the man at the end of the alleyway. He's making his way towards them.

Kuroo ignores him. He turns to face Kenma. Kenma's eyes flash in the man's direction. His hand on Kuroo's sleeve twitches. Beyond the entrance to the alley, the streetlight flickers.

“Pretty late for a couple 'a kids to be out, y'know?” says the man.

“Do you want it?” Kenma asks.

Kuroo glances sideways at the man, then down at the letter. “Give me the letter. You can have him.”

“Should'a gone home before dark,” the man says. It's supposed to be a threat, but Kuroo _is_ the dark, and he's certainly not a child, hiding from monsters in his closet.

Kuroo glances at the letter. A familiar script, hand-written, decorates the cover, _Tetsurou_ written in ancient ink.

The man comes close enough to smell; the streetlight goes out. Darkness engulfs them, and Kenma steps towards the man. Some creatures can't be tamed, no matter how small.

Kuroo steps to the side, and sets the letter in his hand on fire. His own flames sear him. The only light in the alley comes from Kuroo's burning past.

“You've made a mistake,” Kenma murmurs.

The man is done with teasing. He lunges forward and grabs Kenma's shoulder, forcefully turning him. Kuroo watches, passively, as he presses a blade to Kenma's neck, just above the collar of his hoodie.

“Give me your money,” he orders, “Or he dies.”

Kuroo quirks a brow at him, and smirks. Kenma licks his lips.

“Are you deaf?” the man growls, pressing the knife in until it draws blood. In the firelight, the wound trickles amber where it trails down Kenma's neck and soaks into Kenma's clothes. “Your mon—”

He chokes on the words. His eyes go wide, and the knife clatters to the ground. Kuroo can taste his fear on the air. He doesn't know what nightmares Kenma is feeding to the man's mind, nor does he care to know. Kuroo's lived through all of them, himself, so recounting them is tedious at best. No, it's the happy memories, the nostalgic ones, the carefree ones—those are the best.

Kenma turns to face the man, stepping out of his grasp, and motions for the man to lean down. Kenma whispers against his temple. Deals are always the best way to get a memory. A trick in exchange for treat, as the humans say.

Of course, Kenma has a habit of dealing unfairly. Humans will do a great many things when they're overly emotional, and fear is a powerful emotion. Kenma preys on nightmares, on instilling bitter horror in his victims, in being the dark-winged angel to save them from from being chased by one monster only to lead them into the mouth of another.

Kuroo watches the man listen; watches him nod furiously, desperately; watches Kenma smile, teeth glinting in the dimming light.

“Deal,” Kenma whispers. His voice carries with power—a contact, signed.

Kenma plunges his hand into the man's chest. The fire around Kuroo's fingertips sputters out, and darkness descends.

A crow pecks at Kuroo's window. It's beak clutches a crumpled paper, and it raps incessantly against the glass. Kuroo rubs sleep from his eyes and opens the window to let in both the dawn and the crow.

The crow hops in and squawks at him, dropping the paper on Kuroo's windowsill.

“I don't want it, Tobio,” Kuroo says, but Kageyama just tilts his bird-head at Kuroo, and then he takes flight towards the rising sun.

Kuroo wonders if the message today will be a threat or a plea. They come in equal measures, all from one person. It's the same person Kuroo wanders towards each night, the same person he never confronts.

No one has quite betrayed the King like Kuroo has. No one has quite defied him in such an intimate way. No one has quite loved him so hopelessly. Ah, but that's not quite right, either.

Absently, Kuroo worries the chain hanging from his neck with one hand. He catches a glimpse of the words scrawled across the paper, interrupted by hapless creases, handwriting shaky contrast to the formal address written on the letter the night before. He sees the words _please_ and _love_ and _die_ , and feels the weight around his neck grow heavier.

Oikawa Tooru is a curse on Kuroo's heart.

Kuroo squeezes his eyes shut. He tears the paper in half; in half again; half, again; until the bits are so small that they slip from his fingers in his attempt to destroy them. The breeze catches at them, rips them from his grasp and scatters heartbreak across the city.

Long ago, there was a Demon King and his Knight.

Long ago, long ago.

“The next Festival Night is approaching,” Akaashi comments. He sits across from Kuroo at their little table outside a Starbucks. The day is overcast, the last dredges of February still clinging to the chill in the air.

“Too soon,” Kuroo mumbles. “Too often.”

“You should come,” Akaashi says. He primly sips at his coffee. “Everyone misses you.”

“Not everyone,” Kuroo snorts. “Sugawara wouldn't let me in the door.”

“Everyone would like to see you,” Akaashi amends. “And while I don't speak for Suga, I think you'd be surprised.”

“I'm not going,” Kuroo deadpans.

Akaashi makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, but doesn't push. There's a lot of things Kuroo does that Akaashi doesn't approve of.

“You still wear Hajime like he's a prize,” Akaashi says icily.

Kuroo's hand automatically reaches for the vial hidden under his clothes. He can barely feel it, hanging from the chain he wears, under the layers of jackets fending off the vestiges of winter. “It's not a prize. It's a reminder.”

“For both you and Tooru,” Akaashi says. “You know that's not what either of them would have wanted.”

Kuroo drops his hand to the table and leans wearily against it. “Keiji, I couldn't just—we've _had_ this conversation already. A thousand times. I'm tired. It always ends the same way.”

“ _I couldn't watch him turn into a monster_ ,” Akaashi parrots, mocking Kuroo's argument. “Tell me, Kuroo, had you ever considered what Tooru would become when you took his heart from him? To be broken is one thing; to be empty is another.”

With that, Akaashi leaves. His coffee cup still sits on the table, seeping steam into the frigid air.

 _It always ends the same way_.

If Kenma preys on the fearful, then Kuroo hunts the desolate. Misfortune follows him, and he uses it like a cloak to hide hope from the desperate. He reveals it in tastes, in glimpses, in fragments. He will help the broken repair themselves. He'll even give them the tools, right into their waiting hands. But they must be willing to sacrifice.

Kuroo's just made a deal, licked the memory from his lips, when something slams into him.

The mortal he'd just dealt with screams and runs. Kuroo's head cracks against the pavement.

“Give them back,” snarls a voice against his neck.

Oikawa settles his weight on top of Kuroo, shins pressed against his thighs, one hand pinning one of Kuroo's wrist to the concrete and the other pushing at Kuroo's throat. He leans back far enough that Kuroo can see his face, though it's all shadows. He's crying, lips twisted into a growl.

He doesn't realize Kuroo isn't struggling, isn't even trying, even though one of his arms is completely free. As if Kuroo could fight against him, as if Kuroo could do any more damage than he's already done.

Oikawa is warm against him, searing hot and constant pressure and anger simmering down through Kuroo's bones and into the molten core of the earth. Kuroo remembers when Oikawa leaned against him and begged, when the furious tears were directed at the world and not at Kuroo.

 _Make a deal with me_ , Oikawa had begged, and Kuroo couldn't bring himself to say no. There was one thing he had wanted to ask for in exchange, but he couldn't, so instead he'd asked for nothing. He hadn't wanted a kiss that was given under the maelstrom of death and heartbreak, and Kuroo loved him too much to make Oikawa suffer.

Even if Oikawa hated him for it anyway.

“Give _him back_ ,” Oikawa spits, tears dripping onto Kuroo's chin. “You took him from me.”

“You asked me to,” Kuroo croaks out. He is broken inside, like a machine whose gears have all fallen out of place. Shake him, and he rattles.

Oikawa slides the hand on Kuroo's neck down, palm over his chest—over the vial of _Hajime_. “And n-now I'm asking you t-to g-give him _back_ ,” Oikawa says, stern except that his words are interrupted by sobs.

“I can't do that, Tooru,” Kuroo whispers.

He had watched Oikawa and Iwaizumi fall in love—had known it was inevitable. Had known his own hope what futile and useless. It had shattered him then, but apparently that was a naive metaphor, because Kuroo had not yet learned what it meant to be destroyed. Not until he watched Oikawa mourn the death of his ever-partner. Not until he watched Oikawa curse the stars and the void and anything he could, for how could a god be a god if he did not decide the fate of the lives of those around him? How could a god let something so precious be taken away by something so inferior as death?

“You don't understand,” Oikawa whimpers. “I—I can't—Tetsu, I'm l-losing it. I need to remember. I need to—”

“You don't,” Kuroo says, with as little emotion as he can.

“Tetsurou,” Oikawa snaps. “I'm not fucking around. This was a mistake.”

“You thought it was best at the time,” Kuroo murmurs. “Tooru, you—”

Kuroo gasps as the cold claws of Oikawa's being reach into him. They haven't made a deal, so Oikawa shouldn't be able to steal anything from Kuroo, and yet Kuroo can feel him, upturning all the memories held close to his heart, tugging at them.

“Our deal isn't done,” Oikawa snaps, leaning close to Kuroo's face. “You took something from me, so I get to do the same.”

Kuroo sucks in a breath, feeling like he can't get enough air in his lungs. “Tooru, no—”

“You want me to forget him so bad?” Oikawa growls, vehement. “When I'm telling you I fucked up? I made a bad choice? And you want me to live with that for the rest of this horrifying non-life? Fine, you bastard, but I'm going to make you suffer for it, too.”

“No, no—” And now, Kuroo begins to resist. He latches his free hand on Oikawa's wrist to try and pry him off, but Oikawa mutters something under his breath and suddenly Kuroo can't move.

“I am your King,” Oikawa says, “You can't fight me. Now, which of these are the tastiest memories? Which of these would you want so, so desperately to keep that it would hurt you to lose them as much as it hurt me to realize I could not remember Hajime? Kenma, maybe? Koutarou? You're so fond of—”

Kuroo feels it the moment Oikawa reaches the memories of himself. He's rooted around so much in Kuroo's chest that his mind is muddled, moments bleeding together, falling into each other, twisting and changing and evolving. But Kuroo keeps all things Oikawa tucked close to his heart, hidden under layers of heartbreak. Both his own, and Oikawa's.

Oikawa plucks one of them from Kuroo, expression half-angry, half-stunned. Kuroo chokes on air as the memory leaves him, twitching between Oikawa's fingertips. Instantly, he doesn't know what he's forgotten—only that it had been Oikawa, and it had been happy.

“This one,” Oikawa murmurs. He releases Kuroo's wrist to pull a bottle from his pocket. He tucks the memory inside. “The deal is done.”

“What—” Kuroo manages, finding it difficult to get his tongue to cooperate. “What did you take?”

“Does it matter?” Oikawa says. “Is there any memory of yours that, knowing I have it, you'd do anything to get back?”

Kuroo swallows thickly. He blinks in a slow wince, weary to his bones. “None.”

“Then it doesn't matter,” Oikawa murmurs. He stares at Kuroo's memory, swirling lazily in the bottle in his hand.

Kuroo closes his eyes. “You only took one.”

Oikawa picks himself up off of Kuroo. “I... found this one, in particular, interesting.”

Kuroo opens his eyes and finds he can move his limbs again. He sits up. His head throbs at the same pace as his rapid heartbeat. “Just _what_ did you take?”

“I'm sure you'll find the hole eventually,” Oikawa says. He turns away from Kuroo. “Maybe by then I'll be able to convince you that this was a bad idea from the start.”

“You asked me—” Kuroo says, pleading.

“I know!” Oikawa interrupts, whirling to face Kuroo. “I know I asked you! That much, I remember. But it was a stupid thing to do, and I regret it! And when I told you not to listen to me when I knew I'd ask for them back, I trusted that you'd be able to recognize when I was begging you so I could wallow in my brokenness, or when I was ready to start putting myself back together, but apparently I misplaced that trust.”

Kuroo stares at Oikawa.

Oikawa grits his teeth, the vein in his neck straining with his anger. “I didn't understand—why you left. I knew I'd be angry with you, after, but I though you'd know I was just being irrational.”

“But it wasn't irr—”

“Shut up,” Oikawa snaps. “I didn't think you'd just fucking—abandon me, after all that time by my side, and I didn't get why, and I didn't—you _left_ me, Tetsurou, and Hajime left me, and then you took what I had of him with you, away from me, and there was no way I could get either of you back. I was _alone_.”

“Suga—” Kuroo croaks out. “Suga was there.”

Oikawa glares at him. “Suga kept me from completely falling apart, but he wasn't a replacement for the people I lost.” Oikawa lowers his glare to an indeterminate spot on the concrete ground. “Anyway, I get it, now. I get why you ran off, but I still hate you for it. I wanted you to be there for me, so you could make sure I didn't do anything stupid until I was ready to move on, but you can't know that if you're not with me. So if you ever decide you want to be around again, well—I'd like to start putting the pieces back together.”

Kuroo swallows, and wracks his brain for the missing part—the piece that clicked for Oikawa but now obscures the picture for Kuroo.

“I'll be waiting,” Oikawa says as he turns to leave. “And read my fucking letters, asshole. Or answer your damn phone, for once.”

Sugawara Koushi is in Kuroo's apartment.

Kuroo estimates he has about six seconds to live.

Suga didn't even knock—just flung the front door open and stormed in like he's arresting Kuroo for murder. Kuroo starts to get up from the couch, slow and steady because Suga might strike at anything that makes sudden movements, but he doesn't get the chance. Suga stalks over and plants his boot right on Kuroo's stomach and pins him to the cushions.

“What,” Suga hisses, “did you do?”

“What?” Kuroo wheezes.

“What did you do to Tooru?”

“I didn't—” Kuroo manages, but then Suga puts his foot back on the ground and Kuroo sucks in a desperate gasp of air, interrupting himself.

“You did _something_ ,” Suga insists. His stance shifts, from pent-up anger to concern, and he absently chews on the side of his thumb. “Tooru's... different. I know he found you last night.”

Kuroo coughs. “We finished a deal.”

“Finished?” Suga echoes. “Don't tell me... What else did you take from him?”

“Why am I always the bad guy?” Kuroo groans. He leans forward and rubs a hand tiredly across his face. “Tooru never took anything from me in exchange. Until last night.”

Suga's gaze narrows. “You're shitting me.”

“I'm serious,” Kuroo says. “Whatever weird shit he's doing is 'cause he took a memory of mine.”

“Which one?” Suga asks.

Kuroo looks up to glare at him.

Suga quirks a brow, prompting.

“Hell if I know!” Kuroo snaps. “He freaked out about it yesterday, too. I thought he was going to... get revenge. He threatened to take my memories of Kenma or Koutaoru, and I _thought_ that's fair, that's what he's going to do, that's enough. I'll survive. I'll move on. We both will. And then he found one about him.”

“One?” Suga's brow furrows.

“One, and then he closed the deal,” Kuroo confirms. “I don't know what it was.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Suga mumbles. “Why would he take a memory about _him_. He would have been there.”

“I don't know,” Kuroo says. “If I did, I would tell you.”

“You wouldn't, but I appreciate the comforting lies.”

Kuroo snorts. “I'm not trying to be the villain, here, Suga. I never was.”

“You left him,” Suga counters.

“I did,” Kuroo admits. “And I'm not sorry for it. I couldn't bear to watch him, and I couldn't bare to have him hate me for the rest of eternity.”

“He doesn't hate you,” Suga says softly.

“I didn't know that,” Kuroo snaps. “If there was anything Tooru was going to hold a grudge about, it would be about Hajime, and you know that. How was I supposed to know in a hundred years, he'd actually start caring about me being around? He certainly didn't before I took his memories after Hajime died.”

Suga presses his lips together. Kuroo rubs furiously at his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Suga says finally. “You're right, and I just... I blamed you, a lot of the time, because you were an easy target, especially when you weren't around to defend yourself.”

“That's mature of you to admit,” Kuroo mumbles. He pulls he feet up onto the couch with him. Suga gingerly sits down next to him. “I thought you hated me. I still kinda think you do.”

“I don't hate you, either,” Suga says. “I'm sorry.”

Kuroo presses his face into his knees. “It'll be okay,” he says, muffled. “Eventually, I guess. We have time on our side.”

“You should talk to Tooru,” Suga says. “I think he'd like to hear that from you, too.”

“I'm not going to apologize to Tooru,” Kuroo says. “Not because I'm not sorry, but because if I do, I won't be able to go back. Suga, you have to have figured it out by now, why I couldn't be around him. I can't say no to him. He asked me to do the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, and I did it for him, because I can't say no to him, because I've been—”

“It's okay,” Suga interrupts gently. He puts a hand on Kuroo's shoulder. “You don't have to say it.”

But it's been lingering in him, festering, poisoning. “I'm in love with him,” Kuroo finishes, voice flat.

“I know,” Suga murmurs. “I just wish I'd realized it sooner.”

They sit in silence. Kuroo stares at the corner of his coffee table. Suga chews on his thumb a bit more.

Kuroo still feels the ghost touch of Tooru in his being, the sense of something _gone_ , _taken_ , but being unable to place it. It's deja vu, the curse of thinking you're forgetting something and not knowing what it is until you've already reached your destination and realized you left the door unlocked, or maybe it was the bathroom sink was still running, or maybe you forgot to check the dog's water bowl, or—well, did you actually forget anything, after all?

“That memory,” Suga starts. “It must have been meaningful because it came from your perspective, so it's not necessarily the memory itself, but how you reacted. That, or it was one with Hajime, too, but I think Tooru would have wanted those memories from their source, not through you, so that honestly seems less likely.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says. “You're right. Tooru said he... figured out why...”

And suddenly Kuroo realizes he can't remember when he first realized he was in love with Tooru so much that it hurt him, that he'd do anything to make him happy.

“Tetsurou?” Suga prompts.

“I... Suga?”

“Yes?” Suga turns towards him, looking vaguely concerned. “Do you know what Tooru took?”

“Was I there, when Hajime and Tooru got married?”

Suga's expression turns soft, sympathetic, a little bit horrified. “You were Tooru's best man.”

And it hits him—all over again—the pain of being in love with someone who won't love him back. It's sharp and sudden and steals his breath and Kuroo wants to _burn_ something, anything, _himself_ , but he doesn't, because soon after the pain comes the _ache_ of amnesia. He knows it should hurt, he _knows_. He watched Tooru marry Hajime, he _knows_.

But he doesn't remember, and the pain shoots through him in time with his heartbeat, a throbbing, incessant, thing, and he doesn't _remember_.

“It doesn't work,” Kuroo gasps out.

“What doesn't?” Suga asks. He's petting Kuroo's hair, trying to get him to relax.

“Taking the memories doesn't get rid of the emotion,” Kuroo says. He feels tears streaming down his face. He doesn't know _why_ , but he _does_ , but it's not _there_ , in his mind.

“Oh, Honey,” Suga murmurs, pulling Kuroo against his shoulder. “The emotion you still have get through on your own. That's just how it is.”

“Tooru,” Kuroo chokes out. “I didn't know.”

“He's already grieved,” Suga says. He strokes down Kuroo's back, comforting with his touch. “You should come to the Festival Night tomorrow, and see that for yourself.”

“Tetsurou!” Suga calls and waves Kuroo over to where he's chatting with Bokuto.

The room turns to look at him; all but one. Kuroo swallows and walks over to Suga.

“You came!” Boluto cheers, and wraps him in a hug that would squeeze the life out of a mortal man.

Kuroo wheezes out a response.

“Good to see you,” Suga chirps. “How are you?”

“Yeah, dude!” Bokuto shouts in Kuroo's ear. He leans back, still holding onto Kuroo's shoulders as if to keep him from disappearing again. “Where have you been? You never show up to Festival Nights anymore! What have you been up to?”

“Uh,” Kuroo says. “This and that. Got busy, y'know?”

“Bullshit,” Bokuto deadpans, “You were avoiding Tooru.”

Kuroo stares at him.

Suga snickers. “It's pretty bad when even Koutarou knows it.”

“Did'ya work out whatever it was?” Bokuto asks.

“Not exactly,” Kuroo admits. “It got more complicated recently.”

“Why are you talking to us then?” Bokuto says and grins wide. For a moment, Kuroo thinks everything is going to be perfectly okay. “Go fix it! Then we can have all the fun we want!”

With the grip he has on Kuroo's shoulders, Bokuto spins Kuroo around and shoves him gently in Oikawa's direction.

Oikawa's halfway across the room at this point, heading towards Kuroo already. Kuroo stares at the ground ahead of him and meets Oikawa somewhere in between.

“You dared to show up, hm?” Oikawa says. Something in his voice gives him the illusion of a predator on the prowl.

“Can we talk?” Kuroo asks. He forces himself to look up to meet Oikawa's gaze.

“ _Now_ you want to talk? It's only been, what, a hundred and twenty-eight years?”

“Tooru,” Kuroo snaps, even as he winces at the exact number. “If I've avoided you that long, I'd be happy to keep doing it if that's what you want.” A lie. A lie—Kuroo wants to come back together, wants to be a semblance of whole again.

“Or,” Kuroo continues, “We can talk.”

Oikawa loses some of his fight. He waves his hand, and suddenly they're not in Akaashi's penthouse, but instead in a field. They're far enough away from any city that there's no light pollution, only stars scattered like grains of sand against a dark blanket.

“Talk, then,” Oikawa orders.

Kuroo shoves his hands in his pockets and shivers against the chill in the air. “I don't want to run away from you anymore.”

“That's maybe a good start,” Oikawa quips. “Maybe if you—”

“Tooru, I'm _trying_ ,” Kuroo interrupts, and Oikawa closes his mouth.

Kuroo sighs. “I didn't know how taking your memories worked. I didn't—realize that you'd still be connected to them. You told me I was doing you a favor. You wanted to be numb, and I thought that's what I gave you. Apparently, I was wrong.”

“I...” Oikawa says. “I didn't know, either.” He gestures vaguely in the air, as if looking for words. “I _was_ numb. I _am_ numb. But it's not apathetic. It's from a distance, but I still feel. It's... sometime I lapse. Sometimes I don't care; sometimes I can do nothing but feel. The other night... well, I think you can guess which that was.”

“I know how it is,” Kuroo says. “And, honestly, I don't know if I'd have believed you if you'd told me that before last week. But I figured out what memory you took, and...”

“And you felt it,” Oikawa finishes quietly.

Kuroo doesn't meet Oiakwa's eyes. “That's why you took it? Was because it had strong emotions connected to it?”

“It wasn't the only reason. It was... enlightening, I suppose,” Oikawa says. His voice wavers, just a little. A King shouldn't be uncertain. “I never thought that the best day of my life might also be your worst.”

“...I wouldn't say it was the _worst_ ,” Kuroo says slowly. He glances up through his bangs at Oikawa. “I was happy for you. I am, still.”

“I know,” Oikawa says.

Kuroo takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't around to help you get through it all. I'm sorry I ran. I—”

“I'm sorry I drove you away,” Oikawa blurts.

Kuroo looks up at him fully, surprised. Oikawa reaches for him, an absent movement, and then drops his hand back to his side when he realizes what he's doing.

“I should have seen it. I should have—done something,” Oikawa continues. “You were my best friend. I should have been able... to notice when you fell in love with me.”

Kuroo chokes out a laugh. “How could you tell? I've loved you from the beginning. I should have stayed by you, but I couldn't.”

“You don't owe it to me,” Oikawa says, gentle. “I don't blame you, now that I know. I wouldn't blame you, if you left again. I'd be pissed as hell, but I wouldn't blame you.”

“You can have the memories back,” Kuroo says. “But there's a catch.”

Oikawa's face lights up. “Anything.”

Kuroo's heart clenches. Anything is a bold promise, when Oikawa knows Kuroo loves him. Anything is a bold promise, except that Oikawa, after all this time, trusts Kuroo in everything.

“I have a feeling getting them back is still going to be... messy,” Kuroo says. “So we're going to do them one at a time, and I get to decide when you get the next one.”

Oikawa opens his mouth, closes it. Decides. “Okay.”

“We'll exchange mine for yours at the end.”

Oikawa nods.

“I'm not leaving this time,” Kuroo says.

“Thank you,” Oikawa whispers. “Thank you, Tetsurou.”

Kuroo holds out a hand. “Deal?”

Oikawa clasps his hand to Kuroo's forearm. “Deal.”

Magic erupts around them, rustling grass. Oikawa grins, and snaps his fingers on his free hand.

They're back at the party. Hinata lets out a startled squeak when Kuroo appears right at his back and nearly knocks him over.

Oikawa lets out a cheer. “Who's ready for a hunt?”

The room turns rowdy, excited. Oikawa looks over at Kuroo, eyes sparkling, and Kuroo smiles back, barely managing to quell the way his heart wants to burst out of his chest. It's been so long, since he's been anything but alone, and Festival Nights are rare enough as it is, to allow them to gather like this. The veil between gods and mortals thin, and they revel in the magic the darkness brings.

They—all of them—run through the shadows of their city like wolves on the scent of a wounded animal. Kuroo knows these streets better than any of them. They make deals in the dark, cause mischief for the world to find in the daylight, curse things more ancient than them. The Festival Night—together, they are unyielding.

Oikawa sticks right next to Kuroo's side the entire time, and, as dawn creeps over the edge of the horizon, Oikawa tastes a single memory from the bottle around Kuroo's neck.

They are ancient beings, known for their grudges, their thousand-year curses, their eternity. In millennia, Kuroo had not moved on from Oikawa, so he had assumed that devotion of the singular sort was written into their existence, that fate forced them onto the paths they walk with stumbling steps, unending.

But it would be wrong to say Oikawa had moved on from Iwaizumi. They had been so entwined, it would be impossible to separate them, even now. But here's the thing about Great Loves: they change you, they embrace you, they lift you to the heavens to catch a glimpse of gods and beginnings and philosophical truths.

Here's the other thing about Great Loves: you're not limited to just one.

For a hundred years, Kuroo's walked the streets of his city, the one he'd loved and hated and watched over like a mother watches her child grow in adulthood. For a hundred years, Kuroo's walked these streets and cursed himself from being unable to leave. Just one step, in the opposite direction. One step away from Oikawa. He could do it, he'd told himself a thousand times. He never did.

But neither could he bring himself to knock on Oikawa's door. His legs memorized the path; he could find Oikawa with his eyes closed, following the beating of his heart like the warnings on a missile radar.

Kuroo raises his hand to knock. Oikawa opens the door before he gets the chance. Oikawa blinks at him, and a soft smile takes over his expression.

“Eager?” Kuroo asks. He tries to tease. He's not sure if his voice contains enough cheer for it to sound anything but melancholy.

“No,” Oikawa says, despite how quickly he ushers Kuroo through the door. “Tea?”

Kuroo quirks a brow. “Am I staying that long?”

Oikawa sends him a dry look. A don't-even-think-about-it look. “We haven't talked in over a century. You're going to tell me what the hell you've been doing.”

Kuroo sighs. He flops onto Oikawa's couch, tossing at least three throw pillows out of the way to get comfortable while Oikawa goes to get the tea. “Not much, really.”

“One hundred and twenty-eight,” Oikawa calls from the kitchen.

“One hundred and twenty-eight,” Kuroo echoes, “And there wasn't a day I didn't think about you and wish things were different.”

Kuroo hears something clatter from the kitchen, and he starts up from the couch. “Tooru?”

Oikawa slowly moves into the kitchen doorway. “You—” he starts, “You can't just _say_ that.”

Kuroo frowns. “I didn't mean about you and Hajime being together, I meant—”

“I know what you meant!” Oikawa snaps. He sighs, and then he goes back into the kitchen.

“Did something break?” Kuroo asks.

“No. I dropped a cup in the sink. It's fine. Stay there.”

“Okay.” Kuroo settles back onto the couch.

He feels like a foreigner in an apartment that hasn't changed in ages. There are still pieces of Iwaizumi littered about: photographs on the TV stand; carefully preserved butterflies in frames on the wall, wings on display; a full collection of Godzilla comics under the coffee table next to Oikawa's sci-fi novels; the armchair turned so one could easily prop their feet on the table, as Iwaizumi often did.

Oikawa sets a mug on the coffee table in front of Kuroo. He settles into the opposite corner of the couch, nursing his own mug. “You didn't finish telling me what you've been up to.”

“I did, actually,” Kuroo says. “Lots of nothing.” He reaches for the mug, conscious of Oikawa watching him, and takes a sip. “Is this chai?”

“Yes.”

Kuroo turns to him. “You don't like chai.”

“But you do.”

“I don't deserve you being kind.”

Oikawa lets out a little huff. “There was a time, Tetsu, that I thought you were doing me a great favor. It became a curse, but it doesn't change that you did something terrible simply because I asked.”

Kuroo feels the blood leave his cheeks, and he closes his eyes. “It wasn't so terrible,” he croaks out. It's not quite a lie, but it tastes bitter on his tongue, as lies often do.

“On the surface, maybe,” Oikawa says, “And I thought it wasn't, but that isn't true, is it? I asked you to hurt us both, and that hurt stayed for over a hundred years.”

Kuroo blinks his eyes open and lets out a humorless laugh. He sets his mug on the coffee table and casts one more glance around the room. The same room as the day after Iwaizumi's death. “Are you sure you're ready?”

“Don't back out now,” Oikawa growls. “We made a deal.”

“We made a deal that I would get to decide when you got each memory back.” Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest. He lies to himself, saying it's to make himself look firm, unyielding. In reality, it's because he feels small and tired.

When Oikawa speaks, his voice comes out soft, held together, but barely, “Why are you doing this?”

“I just want to be _sure_ ,” Kuroo insists.

“Why doubt _now_?” Oikawa hisses, “Why, after you've given me a taste?”

“I just—”

“Don't do this to me, Tetsurou,” Oikawa pleads. “Don't fucking—don't fucking leave again, you promised—”

“The house is the same, Tooru.” Kuroo sighs. “ _Nothing_ has changed since the day Hajime died. How am I supposed to trust that you're ready when all I can see is you clinging to him?”

Oikawa laughs, a little shrill. “Oh, you bastard,” he says, setting down his mug. “Stop trying to psychoanalyze me or some bullshit. I can still keep what's left of Hajime here without being dependent on him.”

Kuroo stares at him. “You haven't even moved the armchair.”

Oikawa stares right back, and then sighs. “Because I know it's _important_ that it's there, but I don't remember why. I wanted everything to be the same, so when I finally remembered, I'd be able to see it one last time, before I changed it.”

“Oh,” Kuroo says.

“I can go kick it over if you'd like,” Oikawa offers, and goes to stand.

Kuroo lunges for him. “Don't!”

“Oh, now you care about keeping everything in place?” Oikawa sneers.

“I'm sorry,” Kuroo says. “I'm just... scared. I'm scared you'll hate me for this.”

Oikawa softens, and he comes to stand in front of Kuroo. Gods don't need their hearts, but Kuroo's beats harshly in his chest as Oikawa cups his palm against Kuroo's jaw, drawing his gaze up. “Trust me, Tetsurou. I won't hate you for this.”

“How can you be sure?”

Oikawa laughs. “You doubt your King?”

“I do,” Kuroo admits, “Matters of the heart have never been his strong suit.”

Oikawa gasps, mock offense. “I'll have you know he was happily married for a millennium. How's that for matters of the heart?”

“I suppose that counts for something,” Kuroo mumbles.

Oikawa catches Kuroo's cheek with his other hand, a caress, if Kuroo is fool enough to believe it. Oikawa smiles down at him, unfairly soft, and presses a kiss to Kuroo's forehead. “I promise,” he murmurs, lips still close enough to brush Kuroo's skin. “As long as you're here with me, I won't take it for granted. Hajime taught me that.”

Kuroo swallows hard. He extracts the bottle of memories from under his shirt, and holds it out. “Take your pick.”

Oikawa pulls back, but he lingers for a moment longer, fingers warm on Kuroo's jaw, gaze even warming, reading Kuroo's expression. Oikawa has dug through Kuroo's mind, and yet Kuroo feels more vulnerable here, under his scrutiny. But this is not the gaze he learned from Iwaizumi's calculating stares at his bug collections, but the wonder-filled softness that Oikawa reserves for stargazing.

Then Oikawa turns away, and Kuroo feels like he can breathe again as Oikawa plucks a memory from under Kuroo's chin and returns it to its proper place, in Oikawa's heart.

The bottle still looks full, memories swirling and shimmering under the glass, but it feels lighter around Kuroo's neck. They've fallen into a routine: about once a week Kuroo meets Oikawa, and Oikawa gets a memory, and together they reminisce. Sometimes they talk about the memory; sometimes they talk about the century-long gap in their friendship; sometimes they talk about the silly things those funny little mortals do; sometimes they talk about the silly things the gods do, like falling in love.

Oikawa presses a memory to his chest, gasps as it floods through him, and then closes his eyes with a wince. Kuroo watches as tears begin to slip down his cheeks.

“Do you want to...” Kuroo starts, sitting up on the couch to reach out.

“Our first fight,” Oikawa murmurs. He waves Kuroo off. “I'll be fine, it's just—that one hurt.”

Kuroo nods, and still holds his arm out.

Oikawa leans against him, and they settle back on the couch. Oikawa curls himself into Kuroo's side, sniffling against Kuroo's shoulder. At some point, Kuroo feels compelled to kiss the crown of Oikawa's head, and he does.

Once, it was a simple thing to be close. A long time ago.

“Am I that pitiful?” Oikawa mumbles into Kuroo's shoulder. “That you've deigned to give me affection?”

Kuroo snorts. “You know that's not true. You're not pitiful. Never have been.”

Oikawa huffs out a laugh. “Good to hear. So that means you're just affectionate?”

Kuroo stiffens. “I—I didn't—”

“Good,” Oikawa interrupts.

Kuroo feels lips brush across his neck, and a mixture of panic and, unfortunately, hope rises in his chest. Oikawa lifts his head from where he's burrowed against Kuroo's neck, leaning back until he can look Kuroo in the eye but never far enough away to lose contact.

“Tetsurou. I am not so fragile that I could not fall in love again.”

Kuroo feels something tight in his chest unfurl. The knot that's tied itself under Kuroo's ribs, strangled around his heart, loosens, and that traitorous hope blooms into something more potent, intoxicating.

But Kuroo has lived a long, long time, and he has learned nothing if not patience in this god-life. “Let's see if you say that still when you have all your memories back.”

Oikawa pouts, but then he says, “I'll hold you to that.”

Something taps against Kuroo's window. Kuroo leans over from his desk to let Kageyama in. The crow drops a piece of paper on Kuroo's keyboard, and then tilts his crow-head at Kuroo, watching.

“I won't burn it this time,” Kuroo promises. “Or rip it up.”

Kageyama squawks. Kuroo uses a finger to pet under his beak. “Been a while, huh? Will you stay while I read this?”

Kageyama squawks again and walks across Kuroo's keyboard, clacking random keys until he manages to unpause Netflix. Then he sits on the number pad.

“I was watching that,” Kuroo says, but he lets Kageyama watch Netflix while he reads Oikawa's letter.

They used to do this incessantly, sending notes to each other. Oikawa writes letters like he's writing a diary, adding tidbits of his day and his favorite constellations and the number of bugs Iwaizumi's put in his hair recently.

Today, he writes to Kuroo about cleaning Iwaizumi's office, about the knickknacks and trinkets and mementos he finds hidden in the desk, under piles of books, stuck behind the loveseat. He writes about the memory Kuroo had given him last week of how Oikawa used to (try to) sneak up behind Iwaizumi while he sat at the desk, writing. Oikawa has doodled a bug in the corner of the page, with a note: _I found one of these under the couch, so gross!!_

Then, at the bottom: _P.S. I think I found a book of pressed flowers from our wedding, but I'm not sure. I'll ask Suga._

Kuroo's heart clenches painfully at that. The memory of the wedding is a big one, one they've both, in a way, been putting off. Oikawa has never _asked_ for a specific memory, merely pulled them from the bottle at random. Kuroo has occasionally chosen for him, but with no more direction than to let fate pick, and then decide whether or not he's going to offer that one to Oikawa or put it back and try again. He's only ever given them straight to Oikawa, without exchange.

So Kuroo will not give Oikawa the wedding, yet, because it seems so pretentious to _choose_ that Oikawa gets it now, as if Kuroo has any say in it, and he's not there to see it through, either. But perhaps, instead—something happy. He uncorks the bottle around his neck, and searches through the memories, letting them linger in his fingertips until he gets a feel for their contents. He finally goes with one he decides to call _Dumb cute things Hajime did, a compilation by one Oikawa Tooru_.

“Tobio,” Kuroo says.

Kageyama turns, eyeing up Kuroo, then eyeing up the memory in his outstretched palm. He makes a move to snap at it, and Kuroo yanks his hand back.

“Not a snack,” Kuroo scolds. “I want you to take this to him. Are you going to be good?”

Kageyama tilts his head, fluttering his wings.

“Be _nice_ ,” Kuroo says, stern. “And next time, I'll make sure I have a snack for you.”

Kageyama squawks, and Kuroo holds the memory out to him again. Kageyama gently holds it in his beak, hops to the edge of the desk, and then dives out of Kuroo's open window.

Kuroo brushes the feathers off his keyboard and tries to find where he was in his show.

Oikawa shoves the memory back at Kuroo. “Not that one.”

“What?” Kuroo says. “Why not?”

“Take it!” Oikawa snaps, and drops it into Kuroo's hand the second Kuroo manages to react. “It's—our wedding.”

Kuroo stares at him, dumbfounded. “You _don't_ want to remember you wedding?”

“Of course I fucking do!” Oikawa snaps. “But not—not if _you_ don't remember.”

Kuroo gapes at him. “Tooru, what the fuck. I don't matter at _all_. Just take it.”

“Stop,” Oikawa says. “I've made up my mind about it. Don't tempt me. Save that one for last, and we'll exchange the same memory at the end.”

“Seriously?” Kuroo says. “Tooru, you don't have to be fair or petty or whatever this is. Just—”

Oikawa looks up with a glare so intense that Kuroo's jaw snaps shut of its own accord. “No,” he growls. “Give me a different one.”

“Okay,” Kuroo finally allows. He puts the wedding-memory back in the bottle, and tugs out another one.

Oikawa takes the next one without complaint, and shudders out a breath as he presses it into his chest. The breath stutters into a sob, something anguished and horrifying. Kuroo reaches out at the same time Oikawa flings himself at Kuroo with a choked-off wail. Oikawa clutches at him desperately, shaking with the force of his sorrow.

Kuroo holds him, tries to keep him grounded, if barely. Kuroo holds King, his friend, his first and only love, and prays for a god older and greater than them to take this pain away from Oikawa, because he doesn't deserve this.

Kuroo doesn't need to ask what memory it was. He knows. He can feel it in the way sobs wrack through Oikawa's body, hear it in the way his cries pierce the night's calm.

This is a memory of death.

Kuroo opens his door to find Akaashi, a Starbucks cup in each of his hands, standing on the threshold. There's a smear of lipstick on one of them, where Akaashi's already claimed his cup on the way over, apparently.

Kuroo leans against the open door as he lets Akaashi in. As he passes, Kuroo reaches out for the cup of what he assumes to be a steaming chai tea latte, if Akaashi was feeling nice when he ordered.

But Akaashi dances away from Kuroo's hand and spins on his heel. Kuroo stares at him.

Akaashi just purses his lips and quirks a brow.

Kuroo sighs, defeated, and closes the door. “Alright, say it.”

“I told you so,” Akaashi blurts, like he's been holding it in, and he couldn't exhale without spilling the words out too. “I told you so, _so many times_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kuroo says, crossing his arms and refusing to meet Akaashi's smug gaze. “Can I have my tea now?”

“No, give me a minute. I'm still gloating,” Akaashi says. He takes a long sip of his own drink, leaving the lid a bit pinker in the process, and then lets out a gleeful laugh. “I can't believe you. You should have _listened_ to me, you bastard. If you'd just talked to Suga—to _any of us_ , really.”

“Why didn't _you_ tell me, then?” Kuroo bites out, sounding more bitter than he intends. It's not like anyone was forbidden from talking to him. Any of them could have sat him down and explained to him how stolen memories felt, the consequences they left behind.

“I didn't know you were a complete idiot!” Akaashi says. “In fact, I think Tooru wrote it in one of his letters, _very early on_ , except, wait a minute, let me think, _you didn't read any of them_. Miscommunication at it's fucking finest, dear Tetsurou.”

Any of them could have explained it to him, except for the fact that Kuroo had been avoiding everyone, and disappearing without any reason and pushing anyone who came to see him away wasn't maybe the best way to go about things. Kuroo's at fault. He _knows_ he's at fault, but that doesn't mean he's happy to admit it.

“Are you done?” Kuroo asks.

“Not quite,” Akaashi says. “I'm furious with you, and the fact I might spill my coffee is about the only thing keeping me from trying to strangle you. Well, that, and that it seems you being around again makes Tooru happier than he's been in a long, long time, and that's coming from _me_. I hardly see him. Suga probably wants to marry you for all the trouble you've saved him with Tooru's temper tantrums.”

“It's not me he's happy about,” Kuroo says, “It's the memories. I'm giving them back.”

Akaashi blinks, and says, “We'll get back to that.”

“Uh, okay?”

“There's more pressing matters.” Akaashi takes a deep breath, and goes to set the cups on the counter that divides the living room from the kitchen. Kuroo resigns himself to a half-hour long scolding at this point.

Then Akaashi looks up, meets Kuroo's gaze, and says, “God, I wish things had gone so differently. But they didn't. But—fuck, Tetsurou—I _missed_ you.”

And suddenly Akaashi's thrown himself against Kuroo. Barely catching him, Kuroo stumbles back against the door as Akaashi wraps his arms around Kuroo's shoulders and sniffles against his neck.

“I missed you _so much_.”

Stunned, Kuroo breathes, “Oh, Keiji.” He feels unexpected tears threaten to blur his vision as he puts his arms around Akaashi. “I missed you, too.”

Akaashi sniffles again, still wrapped around Kuroo. “I'm trying very hard to cry, because I promised myself I wouldn't, and like a fool, I didn't put on waterproof mascara.”

That startles a wet laugh out of Kuroo. “Got a hot date or something after this?”

Akaashi pulls back, looking up at the ceiling and blinking rapidly for a moment before he says, “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Oh?” Kuroo chirps. “With who?”

“I don't kiss and tell,” Akaashi says with a wink, as if Kuroo doesn't already know. He slips out of Kuroo's arms and goes to the counter, lifting up Kuroo's drink. “You're allowed to have your tea now.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” Kuroo says, making grabby hands for his tea as he walks over.

Akaashi leans back against the counter and regards Kuroo with an analytical gaze—distinctive only from his normal gaze because Kuroo's known him for longer than calendars have existed and has learned to recognize the glint in his eyes.

“You really don't think Tooru's happier because of you?”

Kuroo takes a very long drink of his tea to avoid answering. It burns his tongue, despite that it should have cooled on the way to his apartment.

“Tetsurou,” Akaashi presses.

Kuroo swallows. “I don't want to let myself think that.”

“Why not?”

Kuroo stares down at his cup. “Hope is a dangerous thing, Keiji.”

“I don't get why you fear it. How could it get any worse than it is now? I would think hope would bring some optimism.”

Kuroo shakes his head. “Not when I know what it feels like to be crushed.”

Akaashi lets out a hum.

“I watched him marry Hajime,” Kuroo says. There's no venom, only resignation. It doesn't matter that he doesn't actually remember it right now. “And I gave up on hope while they said their vows. _That's_ what I'm afraid of.”

Akaashi sighs. “That's so painfully monogamous.”

Kuroo jerks his head up to look at him.

Akaashi meets his gaze and shrugs. “Do you think, that in the epochs that you've known Oikawa Tooru, that he has never once loved you?”

“N-not like that,” Kuroo manages.

“You're a fool.”

Kuroo scowls. “He _married_ Hajime.”

“Because they both wanted to, and neither had any other partners at the time to discuss it with. We're _gods_ , Tetsurou. The world and its constructs weren't built for us, and they certainly don't restrain us. Somewhere along the line, you got caught up in the romance of loving someone, and forgot the reality.”

“I...” Kuroo starts, then finds he doesn't know what to say. He closes his mouth.

“I'll be honest with you,” Akaashi deadpans, before knocking back the last of his coffee. “I'd be willing to marry you, or Suga, or Tooru, even, if I could manage to stay in the same room with him longer than two hours. I love all of you with all of my heart, and whether we're married or dating or fucking doesn't matter to me in the slightest. That's just how it is. We're _family_. And despite that, I'm still marrying Koutarou, because we both decided we just _wanted_ to.”

“I—wait, _what_?” Kuroo squawks. “You're _what_? Since when?”

Akaashi looks at his wrist. He's not wearing a watch. “Since—in about fifteen minutes, when I go and ask him.”

Kuroo nearly drops his tea.

Akaashi catches the cup before it slips from Kuroo's shaky fingers. He sets it on the counter, then pats Kuroo's cheek. “You should talk to Koutarou. I have a feeling he'll be asking you to be his best man, soon, assuming he says yes and doesn't just pass out from excitement. I'll see myself out.”

“Did you know Keiji was going to propose?” Kuroo asks as he pulls a blanket tighter around his shoulders.

The room is dark, save for the light of the TV, playing some old sci-fi movie that Oikawa's probably seen a thousand times. Kenma is stretched out between them, burrowed in his own blanket, with his head on Oikawa's lap and his feet in Kuroo's. He's asleep, or at least close to it, and Kuroo rests his hand on Kenma's ankle through three layers of fabric with how tangled he is in the blanket.

Oikawa lets out a quiet hum, as if rousing from sleep. “Of course. He asked me to officiate.”

“Already?”

“Well, and for my blessing. He didn't want to overstep—Hajime and Koutarou had been, well, close.”

“I... didn't know,” Kuroo says. “You—I never knew, how it was between everyone. I feel like I've been so blind, for so long.”

“I mean, it was mostly fun,” Oikawa says. “But they had something special together, too.”

Kuroo groans. “I don't get it—I don't—how can you feel so open, love so _freely_.”

Kenma suddenly sits up, peering at Kuroo from under a rumpled hoodie. “I'm going to bed. I can't listen to you two idiots dance around each other.”

With that, Kenma rolls off the couch and shuffles into Kuroo's bedroom, bumping the door closed behind him with his hip. In his absence, it's quiet. The weight of being alone with Oikawa settles firmly atop Kuroo.

Oikawa breaks the silence with quiet words. “I think it's easier, when you have someone already. When you prioritize them, and you know they'd prioritize you, and everyone else knows that, too. You don't have to be scared of being forgotten.”

“Is...” Kuroo wets his lips and watches Oikawa's profile, all shadows and sharpness in the dark. “Is that what you're scared of? Being forgotten?”

Oikawa nods, once. “More than anything.” He turns to Kuroo, then. “And you?”

Kuroo stares down at his hands. “I don't know... Losing this, I guess. Losing you, for good. I don't know what I'd do if you—” He takes in a stuttered breath. “I think I kinda did, for a while, but I thought it was for the best, because even if you hated me, you were—well, I thought you were happy. And you were happy with Hajime, so I didn't think you _needed_ me. I just—I took what I could get.”

“If you had said something...” Oikawaw whispers. “We would have worked it out. I was never—not as much as Hajime—but for _you_.”

“I—I don't want your pity, Tooru.”

Very quietly, Oikawa says, “Why would you ever think it was pity? What part of you still refuses to believe I could love you, Tetsurou? That I _do_ love you?”

Kuroo draws his legs up onto the couch, wrapping his arms around his knees. “The part of me that's scared that when you remember marrying Hajime—”

Kuroo tries to continue, but Oikawa interrupts, speaking over him.

“I may not remember my _wedding_ , Kuroo, but marriage is far more than that. I remember what it's like to love Hajime, and I remember what it's like to _be_ married to him, and I remember what it's like to wish I was brave enough to open my eyes and fall in love with you, too.”

“You're just—you're just saying that—” Kuroo says, closing his eyes.

Oikawa moves so he's sitting close to Kuroo, and takes Kuroo's hands in his. “I don't know how to tell you this to make you believe me, but I can show you.”

Oikawa places one of Kuroo's hands on his chest. The fabric of Oikawa's t-shirt is soft under Kuroo's fingers, and he's warm, heart beating a steady march against Kuroo's palm.

“Go ahead. I'm tired of the same argument. I didn't _know_ you were in love with me, Tetsu. I always thought your distance was disinterest, and I—I'm _happy_ with what we have, just this, just like this, but not if it makes you miserable. Not when we could be more. I don't want to regret what _could have been_ , but I've finally gotten you back, and I _know_ you won't leave. I trust you, so I'm not afraid to show you exactly who I am and how I feel.”

Because that's what it comes down to, doesn't it? Trust—exactly what Kuroo's been unable to muster, for at least the past one hundred and twenty-eight years, but maybe before that too. Kuroo's been so scared of the terrible and devastating fallout, that he'd forgotten to trust that Oikawa would always be with him, no matter what.

Oikawa had said Iwaizumi was his priority, but Kuroo had forgotten that at some point, Kuroo was Oikawa's priority, too.

Slowly, Kuroo draws his hand away from Oikawa's chest. Hurt flashes across Oikawa's features, but Kuroo takes a deep, shuddering breath, and says, “I believe you.”

Oikawa's eyes go wide and glassy and happy. “You do?”

“I don't need to pry in your head. I've done that enough. I believe you. I'm scared, but I believe you.”

Oikawa throws his arms over Kuroo's shoulders. Kuroo's feet get knocked back onto the floor as Oikawa ends up in Kuroo's lap. “Don't be scared, Tetsu.”

Kuroo catches Oikawa around the waist, falling back against the armrest as Oikawa sprawls across Kuroo's chest, holding him so tight that its hard to breathe. Kuroo tucks his head into Oikawa's shoulder, turning his head to press his nose to the curve of Oikawa's neck. “I—I love you, so much.”

Oikawa sniffles against Kuroo's collarbone. “I love you, too, Tetsurou. Don't fuckin forget it.”

Kuroo laughs in a wet sort of chuckle that leaves his chest and takes his anxiety with it as it goes. “Never,” he rasps. “I won't.”

Oikawa squirms, then, until he's more comfortably settled into Kuroo's lap, and they stay there, holding each other. The night is quiet, between them. Even gods need simple things: to hold someone you love so dearly that it hurts your soul to be apart from them. They remain tangled in each other until the dawn announces itself through Kuroo's windows, and Kuroo thinks that if he could live in a single moment for eternity, it would be this one, right here.

Predictably, in about a week, Bokuto lets himself into Kuroo's apartment with about as much grace as a newborn foal.

“Tetsurou!” Bokuto calls, loudly, from the entryway, at some ungodly hour of the morning.

“What?” Kuroo says groggily, emerging from his bedroom. He'd been asleep, which was a rare thing for him these days since he often spent the nights with Oikawa instead. “Is this about the wedding?”

“Yes!” Bokuto says. He pouts. “But also no! Tetsu! We haven't talked. In forever.”

“Why does my living room smell like smoke?”

“Your door was locked,” Bokuto answers, as if that explains it.

Kuroo already feels like he's asked too many questions. Whatever Bokuto broke, he can probably get Tsukishima or Akaashi to fix it later. Instead of pressing, Kuroo lets out a resigned sigh and goes to the kitchen to start making coffee.

Bokuto follows him like a puppy, and hangs off Kuroo's shoulder as he works. “I missed you.”

Kuroo pauses. “I missed you too, Kou.”

“Did you fix things with Tooru?”

Kuroo has to bite his lip to stop from smiling. “Yeah,” he says, “I think I did.”

Bokuto lets out a cheer, right in Kuroo's ear. “So everything's good again, right? You'll come back? You'll hang out with everyone again? I still don't get why you _left_ , anyway. How come you didn't wanna be with anyone?”

Kuroo takes a deep breath and turns to lean against the counter. “It's—I didn't want to make everyone choose a side.”

“But there aren't sides!” Bokuto protests, a whine in his voice. “Keiji was so mad at you, but I didn't get it. Everyone was just _sad_ , but I think if we'd all been together we could have been happy again, but you wouldn't see anyone. You wouldn't see _me_.”

“I know, Kou,” Kuroo says quietly. “I'm sorry.”

Bokuto looks at him for a moment, and then smiles bright and wide and blinding. He tackles Kuroo, forcing him to lean over the counter, and plants a loud and exaggerated kiss on Kuroo's cheek. “I'm glad you're back, now!”

Kuroo finds himself laughing. “Me too.”

Bokuto pulls away. “So will you do it?”

“Do what?”

“The wedding!” Bokuto chirps. “Be my best man!”

“Of course,” Kuroo says. “When is it?”

“Dunno,” Bokuto says. “Haven't gotten that far.”

“Kuro, your front door's been exploded again. I let myself in.”

Kenma wanders into the kitchen and starts looking through Kuroo's fridge, not sparing Bokuto or Kuroo a glance.

“Kenma!” Bokuto yells.

Kenma's entire body flinches, but he keeps shuffling through Kuroo's food. “Loud.”

“Be one of my groomsmen!”

“Keiji already asked me.”

Bokuto wilts, splaying across Kuroo and forcing him to take all of his weight. “Nooooo.”

“I think he's leaving Daichi to you.”

Bokuto perks up. “Yeah?”

“Maybe you should talk about who's asking who,” Kuroo suggests mildly.

Kenma emerges from Kuroo's fridge with two pudding cups and disappears into the living room.

“No way,” Bokuto tells Kuroo. “That takes the fun out it. This way it's like a race.”

“A race,” Kuroo repeats. “That took you a week to get to me?”

“I was distracted,” Bokuto admits after a beat. “Keiji is very distracting.”

“You've been having sex for a week straight after he proposed, haven't you.”

Bokuto grins. “Yeah.”

Kuroo locks Bokuto in a headlock and gives him the noogie of the century. “I can't believe you.”

“Stop that!” Bokuto cries, but he's laughing.

“I fucking missed you,” Kuroo admits, still digging his fist into Bokuto's hair.

“Lemme go!”

Kuroo releases Bokuto. “So are we gonna go, or what?”

“Go?” Bokuto tilts his head, questioning.

“We gotta ask all your groomsmen before Keiji gets to them, right?”

Bokuto lights up like a star going supernova, all bright and all-consuming. “Hell, yeah!”

“Kenma!” Kuroo calls. “Watch the apartment, we're going out!”

Kenma lets out a noncommittal _humph_ from the living room.

Oikawa answers the door with a flourish. “Tetsu!” He blinks. “And Suga?”

“Hello!” Suga chirps.

Kuroo slips past Oikawa and into the apartment.

“Not that I'm complaining, necessarily,” Oikawa says, “But to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Keiji and Koutarou set the date for their wedding,” Suga explains, “Next Festival Night.”

Oikawa's jaw drops. “In a _month_?”

“In a month,” Suga confirms, closing Oikawa's mouth for him as he saunters by. “Close the door. You'll let moths in.”

Oikawa collects himself and shuts the door, following Suga into the living room. “You're shitting me.”

“Nope,” Kuroo says. He sits down on the couch and pats the seat to him. “In a month. And I'm not making you officiate a wedding when you don't even remember your own, so we're gonna do a memory speed round.”

Oikawa stares at him. “ _You're shitting me_.”

“I'm not,” Kuroo says, though confirming it makes nerves twist in his belly. There's still maybe a fifth of the memories left, including the wedding, and it's a _lot_ to do at once, but they've already gone through a few other big ones, so hopefully there's nothing exceedingly overwhelming to go through.

“I'm here for damage control,” Suga adds. “Just in case.”

Oikawa slowly makes his way to the couch, like he's approaching a wild animal that might run if startled. Kuroo supposes that's fair, but he's not running this time. He's made up his mind. He'd promised he'd trust Oikawa, and that can't just be about Kuroo's insecurity. It has to be more than that.

Suga plops down into the armchair nearby, swinging a leg over the armrest. “I'll be here if you need me, but otherwise, pretend I'm not here.” He winks. “I wouldn't want to ruin the moment.”

Oikawa sticks his tongue out at Suga, then turns to Kuroo. “So... all of them?”

“If you want,” Kuroo says. He lifts the chain holding the bottle of remaining memories from his neck and holds it out to Oikawa. Already, he feels the weight of them off his shoulders. Already, he feels free. “They're yours.”

Oikawa shakes his head. “Take out the wedding first.”

Kuroo opens the bottle, searches, and pulls out the memory of Oikawa and Iwaizumi's wedding. It sits in his palm, a wisp of warm light.

Oikawa takes the bottle then, turning it over with a sort of careful awe.

“Take your time,” Kuroo murmurs.

“Those are memories worth savoring,” Suga adds.

Oikawa nods. He pulls a single memory from the bottle and returns it to his chest. Kuroo watches as a faint smile slips over his lips, fond. He takes in a deep breath—not resigned or sad or frustrated, but fulfilling. It's the breath you take when you remember what it feels like to be _alive_ , and you can do nothing more than savor the moment for what it is.

So, one by one, Oikawa takes the memories from the bottle. Sometimes he smiles, sometimes he laughs, sometimes he cries, and sometimes his brow furrows in soft nostalgia. Sunset through the window paints him in reds and golds, and Kuroo thinks he's never before seen something so beautiful.

Oikawa spills the last memory from the bottle into his hand. He places it back in his chest and lets out a small hum.

“I expected more dramatics,” Suga comments.

Oikawa laughs.

“I did, too,” Kuroo admits.

“We've done the worst by now,” Oikawa says. “It's—it's hard to feel anything but relief to have them back. When you love someone so much that you're shattered when they leave you, you come to relish even the bad memories. I think I know that more than anyone, now.”

Oikawa meets Kuroo's gaze, and Kuroo expects resentment, after what he's said, but there's only affection. Kuroo holds out the final memory, still sitting in the palm of his hand.

“Let me get yours,” Oikawa says, and disappears into his bedroom.

He emerges a moment later with a bottle in his hand and sits back down on the couch, close enough that his knee bumps against Kuroo's. He pours Kuroo's memory into his hand and holds it up, leaning close so his hand hovers near Kuroo's chest.

It takes Kuroo a second to realize, and Oikawa is about to reach for him, but Kuroo lifts his own hand up towards Oikawa's chest. “Ready?”

Oikawa nods, leans closer. “The deal is complete.”

Magic rushes through the room with the words, and as Kuroo's reeling from the thrum of it in his bones, they both plunge their hands into the others' chest. Except—that's not all Oikawa does. Because he also surges forward and presses his lips to Kuroo's.

Kuroo gasps against Oikawa's mouth, closes his eyes, kisses him back, and _remembers_.

Oh, he remembers.

Kuroo took one look at Oikawa Tooru, Grand King of the Gods, General of the Old Armies, Conqueror of Many Realms, and knew, instantly, that this was going to be a whole mess. Kuroo was not prepared to deal with this. Kuroo was certainly not equipped to deal with this. Unfortunately, Kuroo was also the best friend of This, and therefore was in charge of dealing with it on a regular basis.

Oikawa Tooru, Grand Kind of the Gods, General of the Old Armies, Conqueror of Many Realms, was currently staring dramatically out a window, sighing softly in three-to-five second intervals, and clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

Kuroo leaned against the doorway, watching Oikawa with as much exasperation as he could muster. “You can just say you're nervous.”

“I'm not nervous!” Oikawa quipped. He seemed to be refusing to look away from the window. Outside, the sun shone; the birds chirped; it was a perfect day for a perfect wedding, two years in the making.

Kuroo let out a sigh of his own, unintentionally timed with another of Oikawa's. He drew himself away from the door and walked to Oikawa's shoulder. He had stood by Oikawa's side since the beginning, and today was no different.

A pang of heartbreak rang through his chest, that he would never stand next to Oikawa, on equal ground, never meet his gaze. He'd only ever be behind him, at his shoulder. A servant, and a coward. But that is what Kuroo had always been, too, and he especially would not change that today.

“I'm not nervous,” Oikawa repeated, finally turning to Kuroo. “It's just... there's _so_ much that's led up to this moment. I feel like it _has_ to be perfect.”

“And it will be.” Kuroo absently adjusted with Oikawa's robes. He was dressed in purple and gold, fit for a king. “Anything with you involved is already perfect for Hajime.”

“I _know_ that,” Oikawa huffed. He leaned against Kuroo, tilting his head to rest on Kuroo's shoulder. “I know. And this is... It's so _foolish_ , but I feel like this is going to change everything. I know it won't. It's still just Hajime. But it feels like the world is _ending_ , Tetsurou. The whole world.”

“The world is not ending,” Kuroo said. “You'll be fine.”

“Yeah, but—that doesn't really stop the whole heart trying to beat out of my chest thing, does it?”

Oikawa turned to pout up at Kuroo, and Kuroo wished, not for the first time, that he were born of a different curse, some affliction other than unyielding adoration. Some disease other than love.

“No,” Kuroo murmured, “I suppose it doesn't.” He plucked at the paper in Oikawa's hand, giving it a cursory glance over. “What's this?”

“Vows,” Oikawa said. “Or whatever. Promises I intend to keep and might not be able to.”

“You're so temperamental. I thought you memorized these?”

“I did, but I felt like I needed to read them again.”

“Do you?” Kuroo asked.

Oikawa drew back to look at him, brow furrowed. “No.”

In Kuroo's hand, the paper burst into flames.

“What—how _rude_!” Oikawa squawked. He flailed wildly, latching onto Kuroo's arm and reaching for the ashes of the paper as Kuroo held it out of reach, above Oikawa's head.

“Hey—hey—you didn't need it, right?” Kuroo teased, laughing.

As the last of the ashes fell from his fingertips, he turned full to Oikawa, holding onto his shoulders to keep him from launching himself at Kuroo. Oikawa struggled against him for a moment, and then settled, pouting.

“You don't need it, Tooru. Everything you're going to say comes from your heart, and now that's the only place it resides. So today, you're going to bare your heart to Hajime, and we're all going to watch, and we're all probably going to be moved to tears because you're a dramatic bitch who loves speeches. There's not a single promise from your heart that you won't keep, so stop worrying, because Hajime knows that and he loves you.”

Oikawa stared at Kuroo for a long moment. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“Wallow in self-pity?” Kuroo suggested. “Forget to feed Tobio?”

Oikawa gasped. “I do not forget to feed Tobio! Besides, he's old enough to fend for himself, now.”

Kuroo grinned, and Oikawa let out a long breath.

“Thank you, Tetsu.”

That odd expression was back on Oikawa's face. It was piercing and deceptively vulnerable. Kuroo felt adored, and _known_ , and it was terrible and aching and terrifying. He would not write that expression, just on the edge of unreadable, into memory as something fond. He couldn't afford to—he was already so weak, so helpless.

Kuroo swallowed and turned away. “That's what I'm here for, right?” A chuckle. “Your best man is supposed to avert all your wedding-day crises.”

Oikawa let out a hum. He reached out and tucked a strand of Kuroo's hair back behind his ear, and Kuroo nearly jolted out of his skin at the contact. “Will you be here?” Oikawa asked, voice fragile.

“Of course,” Kuroo answered, turning desperately back to look at Oikawa. “Where would I go?”

“I don't know,” Oikawa admitted. But the soft tone of his voice had fled, and he grinned, bright and happy and overwhelming. “But wherever I am, you better be by my side, Tetsurou.”

Kuroo felt his heart crack. Lightning had struck him like sand on the beach, turning him to glass, so brittle he shattered in the next moment.

“Always, Tooru.”

It was a promise he could not keep, even though it had come from his heart.

It really hit him at the start of the ceremony, watching the light in Oikawa's eyes as Iwaizumi joined them at the center, Bokuto on his arm. Oikawa's eyes never strayed from Iwaizumi, because why would they? Kuroo felt the pain of it like a stab right between his ribs. Oikawa and Iwaizumi revolved around each other, like twin stars, pulled in by each others' gravity.

Kuroo was just a passing comet.

The knife twisted deeper, scraping against his bones, during the celebration afterwards. Oikawa danced with him, and Kuroo felt his world narrow to a single point.

Perhaps Kuroo was not a comet, but a moon, doomed to circle around Oikawa for eternity without any effect. Trapped in orbit, endlessly waxing and waning in Oikawa's magnetic field.

“I thought you knew this dance,” Oikawa murmured to Kuroo's shoulder.

“I do,” Kuroo protested.

“You're barely keeping up.”

“You're doing it wrong.”

Oikawa scoffed. “I'm _leading_. I can't do it wrong.”

Kuroo felt a smirk pull at his lips. “Is that what you're doing? I thought you were just flailing about.”

Oikawa swatted at him. “Shut up, you ass. It's my wedding day. You're required to be nice to me.”

“I don't think that's in the rules.” In Oikawa's distraction, Kuroo slipped his arm around his waist, and took over leading the dance. “In fact, I think best men are required to annoy their grooms on the day of a wedding.”

Oikawa stuck out his tongue, like a child, and Kuroo found himself laughing.

A moment later, Oikawa fell into step with Kuroo. With a flair, Kuroo spun him out, and Oikawa lingered on the fringe of their dance long enough to wave to Iwaizumi from across the room. When he returned to Kuroo's arms, Oikawa said, “I'm okay now.”

“Too much dancing?”

“No! Not nearly enough dancing,” said Oikawa, laughing. “About—everything. I'm okay. I've got Hajime, and you, and everyone. I don't feel like everything is so fragile, now.”

“That's good,” Kuroo said. “I told you that you were being ridiculous. I know you can't help how you naturally are, but—”

Oikawa flicked Kuroo's nose.

“Ow!”

“You deserved that.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Where's Kenma? He doesn't treat me like this.”

“He absolutely does, and that's because you're a bastard to all your friends. It's how you show affection. You really do deserve it.”

Kuroo's heart stuttered in his chest, a wild and terrified hiccup. He choked on the words sitting on his tongue and barely managed to not fumble his steps. “Wh—what?”

“You're not cute,” Oikawa continued. “But it's fine. We love you anyway. Maybe because of it. You're awful shrewd when you want to be.”

Kuroo cleared his throat, but his voice still came out awkward and scratchy when he spoke. “Getting married has made you sappy.”

Oikawa grinned. It was genuine and fond, uncharacteristically Oikawa. “Maybe it has.”

Kuroo turned and saw Iwaizumi approaching them. He let Oikawa slip from his arms, and held out Oikawa's hand, still in Kuroo's, towards Iwaizumi. “I present your husband, Oikawa Tooru.”

Iwaizumi let out a huff, but the corners of his eyes crinkled with the ghost of a smile. “He's got enough histrionics about him without your help.”

Oikawa pouted. “Why is no one ever nice to me?”

“You never deserve it,” Iwaizumi said. He took Oikawa's hand and drew him closer. “Dance with me, Your Majesty.”

Kuroo moved away as quickly as he could. To give them space, he told himself. Still, over his shoulder, he heard: “Not majesty. Only husband.”

Kuroo felt his heart reach a critical frequency as he fled. Like glass, when the pitch of an instrument peaks so high it shatters. Like timber, crushed, and with a great and terrible crack. Like ice, first a thin crack, then spreading until it covers the surface and you plunge under the freezing water, trapped.

Despite this, Kuroo held himself together. Oikawa had never been Kuroo's, and he never would be, and nothing, _nothing_ , had changed. Kuroo made a promise. Nothing would come between them. Kuroo swallowed the shards of his love, shoved them deep despite how they cut his insides as he buried them. He would not be so deterred by loneliness, because Oikawa was right.

He still had the world at his fingertips. He was a god, and he had Kenma, and Bokuto, and everyone else. He still had Oikawa. Loyalty yet had the strength to overcome heartbreak.

When Kuroo returns to himself, he's gasping harsh and sudden against Oikawa's lips. He's clutching onto Oikawa, one hand wrapped around Oikawa's nape, and the other pressed against his arm.

Oikawa takes in a sharp breath. His hand is still resting on Kuroo's chest, right above where his heart—those glass pieces, knitting themselves back together—beats thunderously beneath Kuroo's ribs.

A chuckle puffs over Kuroo's lips, and Oikawa's lashes flutter with it, as he leans forward to press his forehead against Kuroo's. “You nervous?”

“No,” Kuroo whispers. “I'm in love.”

Another chuckle, and Oikawa looks at him, now. “Huh. Me too.”

“I can leave, you know,” Suga says, from the armchair, and Kuroo startles so hard that he knocks his head into Oikawa's.

“Ow! What was that for?” Oikawa whines.

“Or, you know, I'd be happy to watch,” Suga continues.

Kuroo groans, rubbing his forehead. “Suga, I think you're relieved of your babysitting duties.”

“Babysitting?” Oikawa squawks.

Suga laughs. He stands and saunters towards the door. “Fine, fine. Now that the babysitter is gone, the parents get the night to themselves, huh?”

Oikawa cringes. “Don't.”

“Stay safe!” Suga calls, and shuts the door behind him.

“Well, if I was in the mood, I'm certainly not _anymore_ ,” Kuroo deadpans.

“He has that effect on people.”

“His _mouth_ has that effect on people. The rest of him is the opposite.” Kuroo scowls.

Oikawa quirks a brow. “Look at you. Thousands of years of monogamy, and now?”

“It doesn't mean anything,” Kuroo protests.

Oikawa stares at him, and then laughs. He scoots closer to Kuroo on the couch, leaning up against Kuroo's side. “I wouldn't stop you, you know.”

Kuroo presses his nose into the crown of Oikawa's head. “Not stopping me doesn't mean you'd be happy.” He breathes in deep, the smell of ancient magic and the almond shampoo Oikawa uses. “Besides it... really doesn't mean anything. You're right. Thousands of years, I've been so in love with you, that learning to love anyone else would take another millennium.”

“You're such a sap,” Oikawa says.

“Funny,” Kuroo says, “I seem to have just remembered telling you that, some time ago.”

Oikawa threads their fingers together, absently stroking his thumb across Kuroo's knuckles. Kuroo's heart thrills with each pass.

“How... was it?”

“It's good to have the memory back,” Kuroo murmurs into Oikawa's hair. “It's... not so devastating, knowing I have you now.”

“That's good,” Oikawa says, just as soft. A beat passes. “I was worried. You...” Oikawa takes a deep breath. “I wasn't in the best space when I took that memory from you, but I could feel how much it'd hurt. It _ached_ , Tetsurou. I—didn't want to hurt you like that again.”

Kuroo squeezes Oikawa's hand. “It's just a memory.”

“We both know how important memories are. They're all we have.”

“I'm fine. You?”

Oikawa turns and presses a kiss to Kuroo's jaw. “I'm happy,” he says, words ghosting over Kuroo's skin. “I've got Hajime back, and now I've got _you_. It's like the whole world's right here in my hands.”

Kuroo blinks at him and feels a flush creep up his cheeks. “Ugh, so fucking sappy.”

Oikawa drapes himself on top of Kuroo, leaning their combined weight back until Kuroo's laying against the armrest of the couch with Oikawa splayed across his chest. Kuroo feels the warmth of Oikawa in his arms and wonders if there are older gods watching out for him. Maybe Iwaizumi is one of them.

“Guess you'll have do deal with it. Hajime had me for a whole thousand years. You've got quite the record to beat.”

Kuroo chuckles. “Do I, now? Does that mean I ought to propose to you as soon as possible, to get a quick start?”

Oikawa gently bumps his nose into Kuroo's, a gleam in his yeah. “Maybe you should.”

“Marry me, then,” Kuroo blurts, before he can stop himself. “Sometime. Soon. Not before Keiji and Kou, 'cause Keiji will kill me.”

Oikawa laughs, and whispers his answer against Kuroo's lips.

Kuroo dreams he's in a memory-tinted ballroom, and he watches with fond affection as Iwaizumi and Oikawa dance across the space. They're beautiful together, with sweeping steps and adoring gazes and pressed suits.

Like fire, bravery ignites in Kuroo's fingertips and curls through his blood to his feet, and with a deep breath he steps forward. Iwaizumi and Oikawa pause in their elegant dance as he approaches.

Dream-or-memory Iwaizumi leans down to whisper something in Oikawa's ear. He pulls away, smile soft, and then turns, holding Oikawa's hand out towards Kuroo.

“Take care of him,” memory-or-dream Iwaizumi says.

Kuroo nods and takes Oikawa's hand.

He wakes in pieces, ballroom replaced by bedroom. Beside him, Oikawa murmurs in his sleep, curling his fingers into his pillow. Sunlight peers into the room, and the light catches on the ring on Oikawa's finger.

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhhhhhhhh  
> kageyama is technically, in fact, another god. i just forgot to write him ever existing in human form so he's just. crow bby for this fic ig. fhdbkdbf


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